


Sides

by MalachiJones (miasmicdisaster)



Category: Cow Chop
Genre: Fake Chop, Gay Undertones, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Illness, Prompt Fill, Pyromania, Violence, hurt!Aleks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 13:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14473407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmicdisaster/pseuds/MalachiJones
Summary: Aleksandr swears he can control himself when he joins Fake Chop; and in fact, for a while, he can. That is until one fateful day, he cannot hold his past any longer, and the world comes crashing down around him.





	Sides

**Author's Note:**

> To the Anon who wanted Hurt!Aleks: fuck you, Obama made me do this.

There were many sides of Aleksandr Marchant in his life, each one unique in it's own.

There was the charming billionaire up in his penthouse, drinking champagne like it was water. There was the kid who would sneak out of gym class to smoke cigarettes underneath the bleachers. There was the man behind the curtain, pulling the strings for Fake Chop's most intricate - _dangerous and chaotic -_ heists. There was the Aleks on the field, quick to bark out orders and just as fast on his feet. Then the Aleks his friends knew, the guy who just liked to smoke weed, talk about all the lives he never got to live while raging over _Mario Kart._

The one Aleks kept dormant for the longest time was a little guy he liked to call Immortal.

Now, 'little guy' is putting it lightly - when Immortal came out, Aleks completely blacks out, remembering nothing of the events that transpired when he'd taken over. He first came to him as a kid, and he'd wake up with his favorite transformer toy smashed to bits against the wall. He would cry and blame it on his brother. When he got into his teenage years, around fourteen, it was the worst; he'd wake up in the middle of a field, covered in gasoline with a lit cigarette between his teeth. Or he would wake in an alley in the city with his belt and jeans undone, with liquor on his tongue, and an aching feeling in his back like he'd been lying there forever. Or one fateful time, the morning of his 18th birthday, he would come to while walking down the stairs of his house, using a pair of scissors to write a fateful message on his wrists that is still scarred to this day - an event that happened right after he got out of the psychiatric facility. His therapist there told him to call the persona who overtakes him on certain nights _Immortal;_ he was never really gone, no matter how long it'd be since Aleks saw him. The name is ironic, in retrospect, because one he met his friends, the people he would soon call Fake Chop, Immortal went away.

But as the scars said on his wrists, it was only a matter of time.

It started again slowly, the migraines that didn't go away, no matter how much _Goodies Headache Powder_ he downed or coffee he drank. He originally didn't think anything of it. Allergies, right? After all, Immortal hadn't made an appearance since he left The Creatures - a separate gang from the one he was in now. That was _peak_ Immortal. But he was in a "better" place now, if living a life of crime was comparable to living a life of crime and depression. So he tried to keep up with shit; he took more jobs, trained more people for the positions the Rooster needed to fill, drank more alcohol with his coffee, and it was fine.

Then, he woke up on the floor of the warehouse.

His ear was on the ground, his arms outstretched on his sides. His one hand was covered in blood, some knuckles sunken and blue; he had no feeling in his hand, which wasn't a good sign. Another bad sign was the fact that he had no recollection of how he got on the floor; he assumed it might have been a bit, a joke with James he was playing, that Asher was recording for a dumb story on Snapchat.

That idea was soon crushed as a fist connected with his face.

His ears rung loudly, his vision going completely white for a second. His cheekbone got cold, numb,Â  hot, and then stung wildly within a second of impact.

"Holy _shit!_ " He heard a yell beside him. Aleks couldn't tell who it was, but he used context clues (the only person standing off to the side and letting this happen) to decide it was Trevor. He blinked, still half-out of consciousness. He looked up and saw Brett towering over him, lifting his right fist up once again.

"No, fuck!" Aleks screamed, hands flying to his face to protect himself. "Shit, Brett-"

Brett's fist stopped right before it connected to his face. Instead, Brett's figure was shoved off of him and to the side. Now above him was James, with a bloody, broken nose, blood trickling down his chin and onto his shirt. Brett yelled something Aleks couldn't focus on, because he was sitting up and grabbing his own face, feeling the blood starting to wet his jaw.

"It's not about that," James said, relatively calm for having his nose bashed in. Aleks raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out what was happening. His head was foggy, and his chest felt tight, like he couldn't breathe. He looked around and saw Trevor and Asher, standing side by side; Trevor was patting the air behind him, searching for Asher's hand blindly to hold. Aleks turned his gaze back up to the men in front of him. "It wasn't him."

Oh. _Oh._

Aleks looked over at his wounded hand again, his fingers involuntarily twitching. _I did that to him,_ Aleks thought. _I did that to James._ His eyes scanned his hand, slowly up his palms towards the freshly opened cuts on his wrist, signifying the reemergence of someone very, very long to hide.

"Oh, no," he breathed, looking up at James, who had a knowing look on his face. He was one of the only others who knew about Immortal - he was with him when it was at it's worse. It was with him when he burned buildings down and killed people for fun. It was with him the second-through-fourth times his evil side tried to kill Aleks. Brett had a confused expression, his eyebrows furrowed.

Then, as soon as Brett began to speak, he blacks out.

-

He didn't wake for another three hours. Of course, he didn't know this; it didn't feel longer, or shorter,, it felt simply missing. Like when you sleep, it felt like a loading screen in a video game, that when he emerged, saw something far worse than any video game he's ever played.

He was sitting on the cow-printed couch, a glass of red wine in his hand like he was simply chilling. Except along the rim of the glass, and all the way down, was blood he wasn't sure was his, or someone else's. He looked up from the cup. He was facing the TV they usually watch or play video games with. The screen was black; he obviously hadn't been watching it. He saw his own reflection staring back at him, but remembering earlier, it didn't feel like him anymore. There was blood coating the side of his head, turning his hair black and matted, plugging his ear so he couldn't hear anything from his right side. On his left side his eye was swollen, and a huge bruise began to form on his jaw. He reached up and touched the bruises, not even bothering to wince as the pain surged through him. That must have been from Brett earlier.

To his left was Trevor, but it wasn't the Trevor he saw before. He was limp, leaning back in the chair like he was sleeping; except he wasn't. Trevor's pale, white skin of his neck was slit from ear-to-ear, his tongue pulled out from his throat and laid on the Hawaiian print of his shirt. He had a camera on his lap, his one hand and a bloody stump of an arm holding onto it, the red light blinking. It was recording. Aleks' breath caught in his throat, and he turned away quickly, feeling his nostrils start to burn with tears. But he couldn't look away, because on his right side was Asher, posed nearly exactly the same; he missed the opposite hand, however. Aleks turned to look back towards the television, but caught a glimpse of the footrest in front of him. On a normally white, clean dinner plate was Asher and Trevor's hands, clasped tightly like there was still some force holding them together.

That was it. Aleks let out a scream, jumping up. He was sobbing now, tears rolling down his face and mixing with the blood, turning a soft red color to stain his shirt. He spun around, trying to pull the image from his mind quickly. "Oh god, oh fuck," he kept repeating, like some sort of prayer to whatever God was listening. His prayers, of course, were ripped right out of his throat (pun not intended) when he saw James and Brett, sitting beside where he was only seconds ago. He couldn't describe properly the sight in front of him; Brett's guts were spilled into his lap, and the couch wasn't even black-and-white anymore - it was a sick, wet red, that grew darker in the places it puddled together. James' neck was hanging on his shoulders, bent at an angle that could only be broken. His hair had been cut straight from it's bun and spread across the ground like confetti. They each had two, big holes in their chest, like they had been shot with the biggest gun Aleks had access too.

That was when Aleks noticed the blood on his wrists, and the stinging, almost burning sensation of the cuts being reopened. He held his arms out in front of him, examining the writing carefully, on his left wrist, to his right, and promptly let out a scream:

_**IMMORTALS** _

**_NEVER DIE_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always more appreciated than kudos. Send me asks, prompts, fanart at my tumblr: @ mundej.


End file.
